GOLDEN ISLAND 



BY 



EMMA KENYON PARRfSH 





Class £Sli2i___ 
CopyrightN!^. 

CQEHUGHT DJEPOSm 



The Golden Island 



By 



EMMA KENYON PARRISH 



NEW YORK 

JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 

1921 




Grateful mention is made of The Christian 
Herald, The American Messenger, The Public, 
The Chicago Record, The International, Suc- 
cess, The Writer's Bulletin, The Boston Trans- 
cript, The Southerner, The Ajax, the Colon- 
nade, Contemporary Verse, Outer's Recreation, 
National Food Magazine, The Pacific Garden, 
and other publications in the United States, 
and The Inca Chronicle, La Fundicion, Peru. 
From the pages of the periodicals named, and 
a few not extant, most of the verses in this 
volume are reprinted. 



JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
COPYRIGHT^ 1 921 

APR 13 1921 
CI,A611624 



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00 



'^ CONTENTS 

The Golden Island 9 

TO A POET 12 

POETRY 12 

IN THE TOWER 13 

GOODBYE 13 

MY TOWER 14 

EDGAR ALLEN POE I5 

THE STREAM S OF EDEN 16 

DES' A-NAPPIN^ 17 

IN PORT 18 

Songs of Endeavor 

to the poet 21 

truth and life 21 

responsibility 23 

TIDES 24 

MY CANDLESHINE 25 

ANDREE 26 

OPPORTUNITY 27 

THE LORELEI OF WAR 28 

JOY 29 

THE TANK IN THE DRAW 30 

POESY 33 

THE PRAYER OF A WRITER 36 

A CHRISTMAS VISION ^y 

THE AIRMAN 38 



CONTENTS {Continued) 

Sprays From the Garden Invisible 

the garden invisible 45 

hyacinth 46 

three things 47 

a city dream 48 

white and gold 49 

twilight song 50 

the child in the grave 5 1 

THE ROSE or TI-IE AFTERMATH 52 

CHRYSALIS 53 

ANEMONE 54 

ROBIN 55 

THE SWAN 56 

wild horses 57 

a winter fantasy 58 

the violin 59 

Songs of Romance and Fantasy 

A dream of THE EAST 63 

NOVEMBER 64 

THE feet of ANATHOTH 65 

ATLANTIS 67 

THE ASHES OF MARY 68 

THE LETTERS 70 

ATTILA : "THE SCOURGE OF GOD"' 7 1 

PEPIN LE BREF . 72 

WITHIN THE CRANNOG WALLS 74 

THE FIGUREHEAD OF THE BROWN LOREE 78 



CONTENTS (Continued) 

love's hours 79 

HER ANSV/ERS 8o 

THE GRAY BIRD 8l 

Just Friendly Verse 

the dip o' the road to nowhere 85 

MY GNOME 89 

MOTHER GOOSE AND FATHER GANDER 9O 

CHRISTMAS DAY 9I 

THE MARTYR 93 

THE DUSTMAN 94 

THE SCISSORS-GRINDER 96 

MY DAUGHTP:r's ROOM 97 

) IXOGNIZED 99 

IN COTTON TIME 100 

HIS SALT lOI 

knittin' 103 

the cynic 104 

there's somethin' burnt 104 

MY POEM 105 

ENVOY 106 

THE INN 107 

IMMORTALITY IO8 



THE GOLDEN ISLAND 



THE GOLDEN ISLAND 

"And see ye not that bonny road, 
That winds about the fernie brae? — 

That is the road to fair Elf land, 
Where thou and I this night maun gae.' 



THE GOLDEN ISLAND 



Far past the hills, 

And where the valley stream has been 
That all the valley fills — 
Sad as the sybil, sad and wan 
Were they — ^there rose, I know not how, 

A glorious golden island. 
Beyond the woodside dim, 

Beyond the haunted byland. 
Through charmed light I saw it swim, 
The half in heaven, the half in earthlife gray. 

How glad the woods that on it grow ! 

They're glad with yellow willow ; 
And mellow-green its dells, I know, 
For limpid waters rimpling flow 

In many a dancing billow. 

What birds unseen thrill all the air 

With more than mortal singing; 
What surging harpstring chords are there! 
Warm winds of spring the burden bear 

With cadenced bells' soft ringing. 

9 



There lifts a cloud of velvet bees 
With belts of gold, with honeyed knees 

The hawthorn odors spilling, 
Till all my thoughts and all my themes 
With wildwood honey, celled in dreams, 

The Golden Island's filling. 

Looking toward no morrow ; 

Life, purple as Lent 
And pale as sorrow, 

Its best endeavors overbent: 
Then, that Island far away! 

To a mortal is given 

To dwell half in heaven 
And half in earthlife gray ! 

II 

So little time ago ! 

Now, sunny strands of summer shine 
Through any winter's snow ; 

Enchanted pictures now are mine; 
From ofif its banks the south winds blow 

The breath of aromatic trees, 
The scent of jasmine and of sloe. 

The tang of salt-green seas. 
And now I see a radiant lake 

Whereon is softly plashing 
A little boat, whose jeweled wake 

Sets myriad stars a-flashing. 

10 



The veiling vapors lightly lift, 
The skies of opal half unfold 

The wondrous Island's treasures 
Of topaz, amber, gold. 
Light, fairy doors 

(O isle of pleasures! 
So perfect in ivory-sheen 

Each lattice gem-crusted, each door 
The soul of all beauty terrene), 

They swing apart, those fairy doors. 
Now, troubles may come, if they care. 

Storms beat on the field and the highland ; 
They bring not despair, I breathe the bright air 

That wafts from my Golden Island : 
And wonder-fed, and angel-thriven, 

My eyes are turned away 
To scenes the half in heaven, 

The half in earthlife gray. 

On that beautiful, visioned place. 
That song-haunted isle without shadows, 
Its hills and its dells and its meadows 

Live ever in glory and grace — 
Mine ever, in raptured thinking! 

Each day I may reach that island bright. 

Each day I may pluck those trumpets white 
Where paradise-birds are drinking: 

My sail I may spread toward that sea and its river, 

For mine is that Island 9^11 and ever. - 

II 



And now to me is given 
To sing my cares away 
Upon that Island golden, 
Till all my years, toil-holden, 
Shall merge, the half in heaven. 
The half in earthlife gray. 



TO A POET 

Exquisitely jeweled, warm with hues like those the 

tropics paint, 
Picked-out with gold; with Parian bust and carven 

ivory quaint 
And opalescent urns ; with glow of perfumed lamp 

and girandole : 
Such are the thousand-mirrored, wondrous chambers 

of your soul ! 



POETRY 

The brooding runes on earth's great scroll, 

Rapt visions, seen or felt, 
Sweet, far-heard music of the soul. 

All hidden language spelt 
Till flesh can spirit-splendor see — 
That work divine is Poetry. 

1-2. 



IN THE TOWER 

Forever in this tower dwell I 
And from the barred windows see, 
With longing looks, the mystery 

Of tangled streams fast flowing by. 

They flow, they surge beneath my gaze, 
Intent upon their own advance. 
Nor cast on me one conscious glance, 

Those streams of life that fill the ways. 

They cast on me no conscious glance ; 

Aloof I sit, midst iron walls; 

Alone I tread its dreary halls. 
It is the tower of Circumstance. 



GOODBYE 

Unwind the davits that let down the boat : 
Goodbye, old ship, thy cheer, toil, discipline ; 
Aye, aye, goodbye. 

Black waters, with sparkling witchlights laced. 
Repel, and yet draw hard! 
O fragile shell, how shall it toss, unoared; 
Or whither drift? I know not. 
And yet, beyond I dimly hear 
A deeper lapping and the pulse prolonged 
Of God's intolerable mystery. 

13 



MY TOWER 

Said I, "I dwell within a tower 

With walls of stone, whence every hour 

I long to fly, but lack the power?" 

Beshrew complaining, and my tears ! 
Whose are the hands that through the years, 
Stone upon stone have built its walls, 
Inch after inch have shaped its halls? 

The hands, I now perceive, are mine ; 
I built this tower in which I pine ; 
Ay, these same hands, and these alone, 
Have framed each arch and set each stone; 
Its iron halls are all mine own. 

And now I view with mild amaze 
The casement strait from which I gaze, 
And wonder that I left one slit 
To let my soul look out from it. 



14 



^^^i- 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Illumined by the '"'agate lamp" 
How beautiful his pictures stand! 
How soft the light on every hand! 

His pencil's touch makes kirk or camp 
A fairyland. 

His pencil's touch, his gem-wrought rhyme. 
Ah ! many a scented flower they ope 
To winter-ground long-buried hope, 

Roses, and rosemary, and thyme. 
And heliotrope. 

The wastrel gods of former years 
Perchance in outer darkness dwell; 
Perchance their songs no more we tell; 

Yet, in his verse one faintly hears. 
Their citherns swell. 



15 



THE STREAMS OF EDEN 

How beautiful is Eden, 

Her dales and pleasant leas ! 
Her pure mists amethystine 

Float on the fragrant breeze; 
Toward opal skies, green-tufted rise 

Her water-drinking trees. 

A river flows through Eden. 

Its streams four-parted run ; 
Past gleaming gold and onyx 

They murmur in the sun, 
A gallant theme, as did they dream 

Of unbuilt Babylon. 

There float from many a woodland 

And many a scented lea 
Fair seeds upon the waters 

That, sweetly singing, flee. 
Thus, on those banks in splendid ranks 

Grows Eden's thornless tree. 

O Eden's rill, four-parted. 

Thy joyous tale is told; 
Yet, river rare, long perished, 

Sweet-singing, as of old, 
Through darkest dreams still shine thy streams 

Of onyx and of gold! 

i6 



DES' A-NAPPIN' 



Des' a-nappin', Honey, 

Lis'nin' at de rain : 
Des' a-roamin', kin' o', 

To'ds de Goodby Lane. 
"Tippy, tappy," droppin'. 

Lonesome soun', dat's so 
Des' a-honin', Honey, 

Fer de night ter go. 

Mebbe, sometime, Honey, 

Patter-roller cry 
"Lights out in de cabin !" 

Den my night gone by. 
Des' a-nappin,' Honey, 

Lis'nin' at de rain, 
Honin' fer de sunup 

Pas' de Goodby Lane ! 



Set to music by Louise Ayres Garnett, by Calvin 
Carrington, and by Russell Morgan. 



17 



IN PORT 

Now are we rocking, home : 
The voyagmg has sped ; 
The loadsman heaves the lead. 
For soft the ripples comb, 
And we are rocking, home. 

The cargo, long-time stored, 
Within the hold it lies : 
Pray God, the destinies 
Give gain to those on board 
For dear-bought cargo, stored. 

Then, as we rock, at home, 
Care-signals float in vain : 
Grief may not come again : 

Fear scuds far on the foam ; 

A-dream, we rock at home. 

So, lasting-sweet is sleep : 
With sails forever furled, 
Forgot is all the world, 
And soft the yeartides creep : 
O sweet, O lasting sleep I 



x8 



SONGS OF ENDEAVOR 



TO THE POET 

When first I heard you singing 

In measures stately, sweet, 
My soul sprang up, allegiant, 

Your regal soul to greet; 
And toward the shoreless heavens, 

To find your air-built throne. 
Past storm-beat crag and summit 

Sped through the night star-sown. 

But futile was her searching, 

And drooped her striving wing; 
Then, down to earth she wavered : 

Once more she heard you sing. 
Ah, deep in mortal shadows, 

In man's own heart divine. 
She saw the poet's wondrous 

Love-litten hearthfire shine ! 



TRUTH AND LIFE 

I searched for Truth. 

I sought her where 

In nun-like stoles the chosen be ; 

Of wise old age and undiscerning youths 

Past joy and care, 

21 



And childhood, artless, debonair, 
Truth fled elusively. 

On many a face bright Beauty beamed, 
From many an action Beauty streamed, 
But Truth I could not see. 

Resigned to fail, I then sought Life. 

If Truth is timid. Life is bold; 

Life dwells not in such secret hold; 

The open field of strife 

Will be his parlor and his playground and his park. 

Yet not one flutter of his wing I spied; 

Nor any soul could tell where he might hide. 

If in the light upon the pine-fringed mountain wide. 

Or in the valley's warm and scented dark. 

But Love walked all those ways with splendid stride, 

And all men knew where shone Love's ingleside. 

A little corner still was mine for thought. 

"I never searched so bootlessly for aught; 

Forever hides fair Truth, yet Beauty smiles abroad. 

Life vanishes unheard, yet Love is ripe and rife. 

I see, I see 1" I cried, all overawed, 

"It must be Truth is Beauty ; Love is Life !" 



22 



RESPONSIBILITY 

Know you our land, what it shall be 

This day a thousand years? 
A garden sweet, of loyalty, 
Of honor, and of manhood free — 

Or stained with wrong and tears ? 

Midst thoughtless swarms, what more are we, 

Our heart-deep faith and love. 
Than fragile sands that stem the sea, 
Or star-dust, sifting silently 

From searchless fields above? 

Like far-spent tides, the yesterdays 

About us noiseless roll ; 
Yet, something from their bygone ways 
Steals forth, and in the twilight plays 

The harpstrings of the soul 

And chants : "Through cycles vast, sublime. 

The future's age-long drift. 
The many-petaled rose of Time, 
The while its secret branches climb. 

May wondrous fragrance lift." 

23 



All truths were ever taught, recast 

This fickle vernal time, 
That through strong deeds its human vast, 
Stern conflicts done, wild dangers passed, 

May reach a fruitful prime ! 

Whose is the task? All eyes may see. 

Though word nor sign appears ; 
Yea, dare I think, on you, on me. 
Depends what our loved land shall be 

This day a thousand years ! 

TIDES 

The seaweed, slack and flaccid, weak and spent, 

Lets trail her salty ropes against the rock; 

The tide is out : no more its thunders shock 
These shelving shores. The lately imminent 
Inspiring waves have rushed away and blent 

With Ocean's gray and glaucous flock. 

Far off, the racing waters seem to mock 
These wasted sands, where now all life is quent. 

Watch : creeping toward this littoral of death 
There comes a stealthy lapping of the brine; 
See how each fluent wave still nearer slides. 
Those barnacled, whelk-beaded ropes take breath. 
They drink; anew in jeweled wreaths they shine! 
So shine men's souls whenas they taste new tides. 
24 



MY CANDLESHINE 

How swift the windy evening slips 
Unseen, beyond the night's dark line : 

Through autumn mists wan starlight drips, 

But on his silent, pictured lips 

Plays soft and sweet my candleshine. 

His living looks, his wonted smile 

Illume and warm my lonely room, 
And faint, far echoes reconcile 
The striving wind and rain, the while 
Remembered laughter thrills the gloom. 

Those live who thought they loved him dear; 

Yet, gone, how soon he was forgot; 
Ah, cherished, changeless, year by year, 
His lips return my candle's cheer; 

Like phantom fires, their place is not. 

Their stars are set : O light, how brief ! 

Burns sv»reet and clear my candleshine. — 
Now tell me, is it jealous grief 
To deem my tie most strong, most lief, 

Or is it mother-love divine? 

Ay, let me hold my dear-bought hope, 
Though all the stars to doom are driven : 

Eternity hath wondrous scope; 

My candleshine of love shall grope 
Till safe to me my boy is given! 

25 



ANDREE 
I 

Dauntless sailor of the skies, 
Unattained, thy hard-sought prize 
Guarded by the lodestar lies. 

II 

With thy last dove rising swift 
Through the bitter north to drift, 
Still allured the fateful gift. 

Ill 

Past the sound of mortal speech, 
Past, of mortal hands, the reach. 
Parted, somewhere, each from each. 

IV 

Thou, and life, and buoyant thought; 
Thou and they one purpose wrought; 
They and thou to death were brought. 



What vast glacier's dim, deep cave 
Saw thy passing? On that grave 
Winter weeps and storm-winds rave. 



VI 

Ocean's floor, or mountain lone, 
It shall claim thee, till is known, 
Of Eternity, her own. 

VII 

Clifted crag, or sea-scarped ice, 
Thou hast paid the awful price : 
Never man need pay it twice. 

VIII 

Searcher for the mystic pole. 
Glory writes thee on her scroll : 
"Iron-hearted, great of soul !" 

IX 

Scarce thy like in life again : 
Vanished hero, be thou, then, 
Valor's type for other men! 



OPPORTUNITY 

The world's enchanted wood, know you its gift.? 

A golden ball. Seek, then, the palace door : 
Yet, learn. To none those gallant portals lift 

Save those, who, fearless, cast the ball before. 

27 



THE LORELEI OF WAR 

(/ knozt' not how it came about him, 

And left me mourning by : 
Nor hozo I live so long without him, 

Who in his grave doth lie.) 
How soft is the darkling air of even, 
xHov/ peacefully sweeps the stream! 
The sunset clouds make nearer heaven 

Earth's glittering mountains seem. 

High on the rock one sits her, singing; 

The weird song floateth far, 
Into the hearts of sweet youth bringing 

The glory-lust of war. 
Above all else her mighty voicing" 

Spelleth aye the listener's ear; 
And toward his doom, yet still rejoicing, 

He moveth near and near. 

Ah, sweet, brave youth ! bewitched, he harketh, 

Eager to gain the songstress' grace ; 
Sees not the rock her fell eye marketh. 

Sees naught but her siren face. 
Ah, woe ! the green wave whelmeth ever, 

His wild cries echo far : 
She smileth calm o'er the cruel river, 

The Lorelei of War ! 



28 



JOY 

One uiiforgotten day, I sought for Joy; 

Through meadows trim, through tangled woodlands 

wild, 
I wandered, longing for the golden boy ; 
Sweet Hope danced near, a flute in her white neaf, 
And blithely all the birds chimed with her strain: 
How saucily each tawny marsh-weed smiled; 
Fat, yellow-cushioned spiders beckoned plain 
From silky looms, that Joy was their own child; 
The tree-frog, painted like his chosen leaf, 
Chirped wetly, "Joy is here, is here with me !" 
Said I, " You mock ; Joy flies invisibly." 
The day wore past, the early stars were set, 
The still dews fell, till all the ways were wet. 
But never once with Joy my quest had met. 
"Where has he flown, that lace-winged, elfin boy, 
And why all day his lovely voice so mute? 
What prison clasps him in its iron-fret?" 
I spoke the words, for Hope was with me yet, 
And one white fist still grasped the limpid flute. 

Now, while her fingers twinkled o'er its stops, 
These words fell down on me like water-drops : 
"There is in all this world no joy like Hope !" 

29 



Unnoticed, Joy all day with me had been, 

Soft wings had fanned with iridescent sheen, 

And led me on, to climb, to search, to run. 

Then walked by me when all the search was done. 

Sing then, while through the maze of things we grope, 

"There is in all this world no joy like Hope I" 



THE TANK IN THE DRAW 

In Oklahoma 

Here I stand, by the tank that seeps from the draw, 
While the. red-bodied cows come galloping down ; 
They are clumsy and frisky, thirsty as flies : 
It's sunup, and never a cloud in the skies : 
Like a beautiful picture shines the far town; 
It 's a miniature without any flaw. 

Here's the path in the draw the rabbits just left; 
There the kildeers were trotting, half of the night; 
With horn-toads and scorpions, big spiders, too, 
How they danced, how they frolicked, the whole 
night through : 
For you know that the moon gave them twelve hours' 
light 
While the locust's shrill loom spread wafp for her weft. 

30 



Because she was just at the full, you must know. 
But now it is daylight, and the red cows drink. 
Ah, here come the horses, a-snort and a-thump ; 
Ho, there, you Smoky-Cloud, roan-over-rump, 
Don't muddy the tank! Why, already it's ink: 
Well, up there where it 's clear, you three better go. 

Sip, sip, sieve-of-bristles, each brown, wrinkling nose; 
Sip, sip ; roll the eye, flip the ear, flap the tail : 
Now, blow out your pleasure of such a long 

draught. 
And forget that you ever learned of the shaft; 
Just think of the days when you skipped on the 
swale. 
Wild mustangs, a-chasing whatever you chose.' 

And I will forget, too, the many hours' ride 
On the red-hot harrow that I am to take ; 
The horse-nettles' roots from the sure antipodes, 
With a hundred more weeds whose wrought-iron 
nodes 
Ferociously strive every disk to break : 
For, Man as a Monarch, your weed can't abide ! 

But nevertheless I can stand all of that : 
I like the rough ride through the keen, burning wind, 
The "Brr'rr" of the bullbat that's swooping for 

prey; 
The scissor-tail flitting, gray ghost of the day, 
The buzzard afloat like a soul that has sinned 
And will not repent, for on sinning grows fat. 

31 



Hah ; the life of a farm ; monotony's lot ; 
Tomorrow, the heat and the wind and the toil : 
What pleasure have they who must lead such a 

life? 
Say, look; in the shack see the babe and the wife: 
Why, each of them 's worth all the care and the moil ; 
And both — where 's the man has his heaven forgot ? 



Well, now the day's over, and each prickly claw 
Of each demon weed has let go for the time; 
The smoking-hot harness hangs up in the barn : 
The manes of the horses string out like brown 
yarn, 
As they soberly stride through evening's sweet prime 
Toward sunset that 's red on the tank in the draw. 



32 



POESY 

'All things are not told to all." 

- — Tennyson : The Hesperides. 



My soul in sorfovv said to me — apart 

I dwell, as on the misty edge of things— 
""Great Poesy is dead ! her tuneful heart 

Is hushed ; a golden harp with broken strings ; 

Her eyes of light, her world-encircling wings, 
Her potent hands, her fragrant breast, enthrall 

Men's minds no mote with high imaginings : 
The ancient Nine have spread a purple pall : 
Come thou with me to weep her loeely burial.'^ 



II 



While we athwart her mystic gardens sped, 

I sighed, "Yea, true ; all things must have surcease. 

Kow hath she won (if that we find her dead), 
Like elder art, a dateless, lethal peace, 
With all the gteat of age-old, wondrous Greece." 

While yet I spake there rose the pillared gloom 
Of dusky smoke, a thurible's release 

Of prisoned musk; Sabean herbs in bloom 

Empurpled all the sward before a stately tomb. 



Ill 



Great Poesy therein lay mute. Yet, blithe 

As morning birds, wee boys, scarce to her breast 

In height, around her sang and leaped in lithe 
Symmetric steps ; while lisping girls addressed 
Their hands to mighty lyres, as if in quest 

Of some deep chord forgotten long ago. 
Or never heard, or heard, but unexpressed. 

Now, why these searched, or those high reveled so, 

I marveled much, and sought of them forthright to 
know. 



IV 



"Are such things meet, while there she rests," I cried, 

"In purple and in folds of sannah clad? 
Should your slight songs fill all this mourning-tide, 

As ye were whole, and well at ease, and glad? 

Look, from her brow the death-dew drips ; and sad 
Are all the sons of earth ; yea, woeful hum 

The very bees that gild the myriad 
Pale amaranths, her pall, who lieth dumb ; 
The whole world's mother, and the soul of things to 
come!" 



34 



V 

The while I spake, her puissant, proud lips 

Relaxed; her lidded eyes shed forth soft flame. 
"She lives!" I cried, "her long-held trance now slips." 

And yet thereat no faintest whisper came. 

"O spacious Poesy!" I wept, "whose name 
I love. O mother vast of things unguessed! 

One kneeleth here that jealously thy fame 
Esteems. Acquaint me, what shall break thy rest. 
And fill the skies with song till all the earth be 
blessed?" 



VI 



"His voice," she breathed, "that moves the human soul 

As harps are moved within each moaning string. 
Let silent deeps of death above me roll, 

Yet wake I then, and lift high caroling. 

Who hath not known the shadow of my wing? 
But one I brooded, warm and long; he, shod 

With shoon of light, shall, gallant-climbing, sing. 
Then, as they, too, the scarchless star-paths trod. 
Men's souls shall melt with joy, the joy that finds 
out Gk)d!" 



35 



THE PRAYER OF A WRITER 

Lord of Life, in health and sickness, 
Strengthen me amidst my weakness ; 
Let me cling to Thee in meekness ! 

Swift though loss, and slow retrieving,. 
Fickle Hope my hopes deceiving, 
Keep me in myself believing. 

Striving always, fainting never. 
Patient courage give me ever — 
Faith, the mountain-moving lever. 

Keep me humble (honor winning) 
And consistent; never sinning 
By bad end to good beginning. 

Give me life in fullest measure; 

Duty done, my greatest pleasure ; 

Work achieved, my heart's best treasure. 



36 



A CHRISTMAS VISION 

What glow of gold against the sapphire night? 
Upon gra3^-sihadowed stalls it showers light; 
There oxen drowse while burns the splendor white. 

Three knigs speed on o'er rock and frowning scar, 
Fast night's cold dart and day's red scimitar. 
In gems and purple decked, from deserts far 

They seek a Babe's fair face : a smiling flower 
That lights the umbered skies though dusk may lower, 
It beams on them this glad consummate hour. 

How low they bend, how reverently lay 
Rich gifts before the Babe; then, joyful, yea, 
With heaven in their eyes, they ride awa}^ 

What sadness fell upon my spirit then. 
I had no gifts as had those princely men: 
But these words sweet and doubly sweet agaiti 

Caressed my ears : "As it were done to me, 

So is each loving deed in verity 

My little ones receive from thine or thee." 

Oh, never king could give in times of yore 
A better gift than love from out his store: 
This will I gladly give forevermore. 

37 



THE AIRMAN 

Above the resined pines and thymy-odored larches, 

As if to taste the Spring, the wild-fowl wends : 
Yet, why he wings those lone aerial marches 
Not dimly comprehends. 

Beyond the utter power of any limner's painting 
Spread gleaming cities, rich in tower and thole : 
Himself with heights ineffable acquainting. 
Naught learns he, save his goal. 

H but one secret of God's hidden laws we capture, 

How glad and swiftly-far the word is pressed ! 
Transcribe we on the world's great scroll our rapture- 
That age-old palimpsest. 



Across the blue etherial spaces swiftly coming 

In birdlike flight, what flecks the lustrous sky? 
I list its mechanism's far-heard humming 
And marvel silently. 

A phantom ship, helmed by an air-drawn, spectral 
skipper, 
Scuds where the wonders of great dew have birth, 
Till fancifully drips the leaning Dipper, 
And Morning wakes the earth : 

38 



Or meets magnolian airs, adrift in purple even, 

While slanting-wide the jeweled Scorpion slips, 
And while far down the sapphire bowl of heaven 
Canopus golden dips : 

Till vanished are those clust'ring Pleiades the tender, 

Their influences sweet withdrawn from man ; 
Bedimmed Capeila's old, benignant splendor, 
And hid, Aldebaran. 

Perchance, beyond the stony Andes' bulwarks savage, 

Unspent, his lean-winged coracle shall fly, 
And o'er the flooding Amazon's vast rivage 
Course undisturbed bv. 



Late, casting-off, he soared mid peals of gathered 
thunder 
From myriad voices, honoring his might : 
More daring none the azure heavens under; 
Icarian his flight. 



He, darting forth, the peaceful Continents' swift 
shuttle. 
Past cloud-alps f rore, with condor-wings may vie ; 
Or dance above the sulpihur-smoke of battle, 
War's splendid dragon-fly. 
39 



A phantom ship ; an air-drawn, spectral skipper, 
cleaving 
The untracked ether, true as plummet-line ; 
A thing of dreams ; a loom of magic, weaving 
A web of deeds divine. 

What if, above Atlantis' long evanished glory. 
Where waving weeds the salt tides ever lull. 
He passes swift, as passed Atlantis' story — 
More swift, more wonderful ! 

And gliding on, the Gulf's blue, thermal stream pur- 
suing, 
What if his charter free permits to seek 

Far northern isles ; he from his eyrie viewing 
Those Orcades the bleak? 

Then, onward yet, beyond the dark, old-world Ripheans, 
Whose riveled fronts frown where the Arctic roars ; 
Where echoes sound, of what unearthly peans, 
From what retumless shores. 

He may — why may he not? — some star-crowned day, 
far yonder, 
Compel that cryptic, gravitating force 
Until it frees him, comet-like to wander 
His parabolic course, 
40 



And float beyond aJl earthly plains and meadows vernal, 

Past fens and tarns whereon the firedrake gleams, 
Toward living rills, and brooks and meres eternal, 
Sluiced from the Sea of Dreams. 

V/hat secret cities rise upon the lucent heaven 

And spread their vision-walls athwart the sky ; 
What hidden hills, transplendent green and thriven. 
Mirage eternally ! 

Oh, then it is, the transitory earth-lights, tingling, 

Forever flame, while evermore they die, 
And iridescent star-blooms, raptured mingling. 
Foreshow Eternity. 

Yet, whereso faint may loom the fleeting, shoreless 
traces 
Which fearlessly his bark essays to seek, 
Abreast the infinite, abysmal spaces, 
No tongue can frame to speak, 

And none may ever set the confines of his fleeing, 

Who searches for the holy, living One, 
Swims with the nebulous calm whorl of Being, 
An ether-sweeping sun. 

As to a clepsydra's perpetual, sweet dripping, 

Time, and the aeon-angels gently list : 
Seems then, they hear Eternity's soft slipping 
T'hrough age-long fog and mist. 
41 



Xo eye now beams may see the Future's glory 
haunting ; 
No voice that singeth here may tell its worth ; 
Remains it for some Israfel's sweet chanting 
"When God calls all the earth." 

Yet seems it that a calm, prophetic gaze transversal 

Of human life, man's hopes, his aims, his fears, 
Alay read in storied rings his deeds' rehearsal 
Through rapt sequoia years. 



Of all the wondrous cosmos-works Thou, Lord, 
createst. 
From systems vast, down to the emmet's span, 
I deem that Thy enduring best and greatest 
Shall yet be wrought through Man. 



42 



SPRAYS FROM THE GARDEN INVISIBLE 



THE GARDEN INVISIBLE 

There daffodils awaken 

To golden sheen and scent; 
And by soft airs o'ertaken 
Like fragrant bells are shaken 

Pale jonquils, dew-besprent ; 
There wave white tufts, like cotton, 

There glow young leaves, like wine ; 
Like lazule, amber-shotten, 
Gleams larkspur, half -forgotten 

'Neath betony's dark bine. 

A mystic elm-tree covers 

One shadowed oasis. 
Ah! look; a wild-bee hovers 
Strange, luscious purple clovers; 

My garden dreams, I wis ; 
And now the red sun painteth 

The pansy's velvet bars ; 
A lifting breeze acquainteth 
Yon violet that fainteth. 

With newly risen stars. 

Say not, "There is no garden, 

No radiant parterre." 
Ah ! rich their gold thighs' burden-— 
My bees' — of nectar nardine 

Its honeyed blossoms bear; 

45 



And in its verdure holdeil 
My soul exults at will ; 
Shines there a glory olden — ■ 
Than Hesper's tree more golden; 
More greeti than Ygdrasil ! 



HYACINTH 

What time 1 note thee, lovely hyacinth, 
With watchet pale, or purple dyes replete, 
And borne upon thy dainty hidden feet 

In stately guise, sweet statue on proud plinth, 

x\midst the garden's odorous labyrinth, 
Thou seem'st a maiden risen up to greet 
Her guest with honors that she deemeth meet 

I think and fancy then, O hyacinth. 
That thou, like her, art guarded by the doors 

Of warmth and safety; not to her nor thee 
Hath come one echo from the surging shores 

Of Life, that passionate, sad, throbbing sea: 
Alike ye give your gracious fragrance thence, 
In sheltered, childlike, untried innocence. 



46 



THREE THINGS 

Three things there were, and I was three years old 
I gathered in my apron all the gold. 

The purple, and each rosy-petaled thing 
That goes to make the lovely, manifold 

Rich vesture of a flower-field in spring. 

Three things, attuned of color, heaven-bright, 
Of perfume's exquisite, divine delight, 

And song; just where the song, I did not choose 
To search; 'twas mine, I knew, of very right. 

And I was busy with those scents and hues. 

A lichened stump held all my posies piled, 
A sapphire sky upon the treasure smiled. 

And from the sapphire sang a tranced bird : 
But song, nor scent, nor color most beguiled ; 

The three my being's depths each sweetly stirred. 

Three, did I say ? Four. Joy was there ; 
His little wings soft fanned the air 

As, hand in hand, we dancing went. 
Without a fear, without a care, 

Around the gray stump's battlement. 

47 



Then passed he on; yet, to this day, 
I often meet him on my way; 

Oh, yes, in this or any land, 
In woods or meadows if I stray, 

Sweet Joy and I go hand in hand. 



A CITY DREAM 

A little fagot in the street, 
A bunch of something spicy-sweet. 
How I forget the arid ways 
And find myself in other days ! 

t 

I wade across the cowslip-marsh, 

The warmish water laps my feet ; 
Upon the rail, a gopher fleet 
Slips blithely by, a gold-brown streak. 
A bluejay's note rings mellow-harsh 
From out the oak tree gray and bleak. 
A sunny touch, most shy and meek, 
Lights up the hazel-hedge with red. 
Then suddenly upon my head 
I feel great drops of April rain ; 
I laugh, for I am seven again ! 
I'm wading through the warm, wet grass 
To reach the woods, that hold for me 
A sacred, prized, and much-robbed tree. 
My tree of fragrant sassafras ! 

48 



WHITE AND GOLD 



I gave to my little friend 

To hold in her hand for a day, 

A crocus, tied with a snow-white ribbon, 

For a going-away present. 



II 



I gave to my little friend 

To wear tomorrow and tomorrow 

A pearl-white dress and a gold-thread necklace, 

For a going-away present 



III 



I gave to my little friend 
To keep — ^how long! — 
A kiss on her milk-white forehead 
And on the still strands of her sunny hair,: 
For a going-away present. 



49 



TWILIGHT SONG 



The woods, knee-deep in ferns, 

Repeat the robin's song, 
The crimson sunset burns 

The dark, wild hills along. 
O, sleep, my birdling, sleep, 

For soon they'll all be still. 
Save in the forest deep 

The plaintive whippoorwill. 

The fields with flowers are fair, 

With lilies straight and tall ; 
The rose perfumes the air 

Beneath the garden-wall. 
O, sleep, my blossom, sleep ; 

The flovv^ers to rest have gone, 
Save where the soft winds sweep 

The jasmine, watching lone. 

The brooding darkness falls 

Upon the purple north ; 
Above its silent walls 

The golden worlds gleam forth, 
O, sleep, my baby, sleep ; 

My bird, my bloom, my star. 
May angel-watchers keep 

All harm from thee afar ! 

50 



"THE CHILD IN THE GRAVE" 

— Hans Christian Anderson, 

No more for thee the clovers wake, 

The dandelion shines unseen ; 
For thee no more the grasses shake 

Their golden dust upon the green; 
The morning-glory seeks the door 
With dewy smile, for thee, no more. 

No more for thee the meadow-lark 

Exults in air with joyous thrill; 
For thee no more repines at dark 

Within his woods, the whippoorwill; 
The piper trips along the shore 
With merry nod, for thee, no more. 

Thy tiny bed, so deep and still, 

Thy little bed, my tears caress : 
Nor dream of joy, nor fear of ill 

Can mar its slumbrous sacredness: 
And oh, one morn shall ope thine eyes 
On bird and bloom in Paradise] 



51 



THE ROSE OF THE AFTERMATH 

Where the shorn grass shuddered with heat, 
Where it smiled midst its thorns, at my feet, 

Overliving the mowers' scath; 
There it met me, jocund and sweet, 

A rose, in the aftermath. 

Little rose, thy courage lifts mine : 
As to thee came fragrant sunshine 

In thy ledge by the dusty path, 
So to me, dreams glowing, divine, 

O rose of the aftermath ! 

Purple skies melt softly to gray; 
All vanished my harvested hay; 

Yet a delicate perfume hath 
From the meadow beside the way, 

My rose of the aftermath. 



52 



CHRYSALIS 

Cradled aloft on the blossomless bough, 

In the sunshine pale to sleep and to swhig, 
Forgot is yesterday ; unheeded now ; 

No thoughts do the listening light winds bring 
Silently, peacefully slumberest thou, 

Like a bird 'neath the mother-bird's wing: 
Unfelt is night, and night-wind's kiss, 
Chrysalis, chrysalis, 

Calmly awaiting spring. 

Thou carest not that the north winds shrill 

Chase the clouds o'er the bleak wild sea; 
For when meek summer's thermal thrill 

Furrows the scented, sunlit lea, 
Creeps through the valley and warms the hill 

A-bloom for the insatiate bee. 
And wakes all things to life and bliss, 
Chrysalis, chrysalis, 

It shall awaken thee. 

How on my heart the thought doth rush 
That if I knew my morn would wake, 

Then, in some long, rapt evening's hush 
I would, like thee, my cerements make, 

53 



And leave the world in life's glad flush, 
Content to die, for Life's sweet sake. 

Naught were the plunge in Death's abyss^ 

Chrysalis, chrysalis, 

Had I thy hope to wake 1 



ANEMONE 

Anemone, so lithe and free. 

The windy woodsides smile on thee I 

For when the sudden April sun 

Warms their green rim, 
And dancing amber gleams o'errun 

The long aisles dim, 
Thou standest, glad and unafraid, 
A simple, wildling mountain maid : 
No wall to shield thee, no defense ; 
Safe, thou, in life and joy intense, 
In sweet, strong, inborn innocence : 

Emblem, thou, anemone, 

Of stainless, windswept purity! 



54 



ROBIN 

When splendor floods the wild March skies 

And paints the willows yellow, 
Then, speeding to his elm, there flies 
Beloved Robin, and his cries 

Ring ravishingly mellow. 

His rubric breast, it margins Spring 

And annotates her pages ; 
A mad and music-thirsting thing, 
Betosised in dulcet passioning 

Which naught but song assuages. 

O Robin, how your forebears sang 

That melting, joyous pean. 
Their pulsing hearts' most honeyed pang ! 
Almost, it seems, some echoes hang 

Each happy shrub and tree on. 

Sometimes I murmur, when your flight 

Seeks out my ripened cherries : 
In them, those haunting woodnotes bright, 
How coniscience-clear, from dawn till night, 

Your dusky bill deep buried ! 

55 



Yet, should I win the "fadeless year." 

One flaw in that blest vision 
There still must be, sweet bird, I fear, 
Unless I find you, Robin dear, 
In those glad fields Elysian! 



THE SWAN 

A FANCY 

Lady Swan, you snowy-white 
Hasteless phantom of the light; 
Where the still pools darkly gleam, 
Where the sun-flecked meads invite 
Where the silver sluices stream 
Toward the green and lucent night, 
Swan of ease and lady-days, 
Mystery seals all your ways. 

Motionless your milk-white dress, 
Thistledowny perf ectness ; 
Not a plume unfolds to glean 
One small zephyr of the noon, 
Nor beneath the windy moon 
Slants one pearly-ribbed lateen: 
Fairy tides that ebb and flow, 
Elfin billows, they, I know, 
Float your argosy of snow. 

56 



WILD HORSES 

They come, they go ; my spirit's ear 

Discerns their voiceless neighing ; 
Across the stream, in grasses sheer 

I see their white manes swaying; 
The coppice parts, a redwing darts, 

A wren, a yellowhammer, 
And from his sentry-oak upstarts 

A crow, with sudden clamor. 

Adown the stream my horses glide, 

They break the lapping ripple 
And on its greenly-dancing tide 

Their coats the sunflakes stipple ; 
Now, to and fro, afar they go, 

They lure me in their going; 
They scatter petals thick as snow, 

Wild-cherry oddrs strowing. 

A tide of dreams ; I wait no more. 

For here's a fairy shallop, 
A silken sail, an elfin oar — 

How swift my horses gallop ! 
The summer day is tranced away, 

The evening air is blowing; 
Far in the west I hear them neigh^ 

Toward Hesper's pastures going. 

57 



A WINTER FANTASY 

Beneath a grotto, roofed with snow, 
Low down against the cobble-wall, 

I hid so still, no soul could know 
That anyone was there at all. 

I heard faint sounds, besides the tap 

The crisp breeze dropped upon, my hair, 

Faint, wildborn sounds ; one was the rap 

The squirrel's tail made on his cap ; 
And one, the joyous little air 

A dry leaf sang, from some weed tall, 

A-tinkle on the icy w&"' 

The mouse, the chipmunk, flitted past. 
As they were moongleams, elfin-cast; 
Their lissome footsteps came and went 
Like summer shadows on a tent. 
Or little stitches in a quilt. 
Or bossy frets within the gilt 
Of some rich carving, quaint and old. 
All intricate dim knots of gold : 
So did those braided footsteps go 
Beside my bower, to and fro, 

5^ 



What found I there, down in the snow? 

Naught, naught, save this I've told to thee : 
And yet — and yet — I seemed to know 

The winter's heart more perfectly : 
The very winter's spirit streamed 

In iridescent crystals by : 
And wondrous was his smile that beamed 

Soft splendor from the sunlit sky. 



THE VIOLIN 

You played the violin, and as the bow 

Swept o'er the strings I heard my sad heart sing ; 
And Joy looked gaily up, his face aglow, 

And Hope came limping on her broken wing, 
And lovely, long-lost Pleasure sprang to make 

Sweet murmurs in my ear — dear, sea-brought shell- 
And chant its hidden story for your sake 

Because the violin you played so well. 
But once you lost your prized instrument, 

Nor knew that I had lost my prize, my all: 
That ever since I am as one dement, 

And care for naught save on one name to call. 
O trusted, truest friend, know you this riddle : 
My heart I lost, what time you played that fiddle ! 



59 



SONGS OF ROMANCE AND FANTASY 



A DREAM OF THE EAST 

O East, with odors laden 

Of spice, and musky blooms. 
As in some vanished Eden, 
Remembered sunsets redden 

Thy temples and thy tombs. 
Amidst the honeyed clover, 

Divine with eventide, 
O East, thy oldtime lover 
Sends thee his heart, fond rover, 

From out the prairie wide. 

That tide, Euphrates olden, 

No mortal heart forgets ; 
As in a mirror holden 
Gleam Bagdad's domes the golden, 

And Basrah's minarets. 
Muezzen-voices chiming 

From far-off mosques I hear. 
True Islam's prayer-hour timing, 
While in the south is climbing 

The kingly Aboukir. 

Now trills the limpid zitter — 

Say not. It is a dream ; 
A waking trance were fitter — , 
Now through the lattice glitter 

Gay lights, and night-lamps beam. 

63 



Remembered sunsets redden, 

O East, the prairie wide ; 
With spicy blooms of Eden 
The summer winds are laden. 
All thine, this eventide ! 



NOVEMBER 

What bring you, pensive starveling of the year? 
The poplar's naked poles slant white and drear; 
Her tawny locks the flaw-racked elm is flinging 
Across the sullen glebe windswept and sere : 

And yet, the swart-robed crows keep raucous cheer; 
Blue-darting jays, what time the spent gusts veer, 
Some delicate refrain of joy are bringing: 
I list, and wonderfullest fluting hear. 

Then, through the brown wood-aisles comes springing 

near — 
O amber hair ! O limbs carnelian-clear ! — 
Fair Love, dear Love, his voice delicious ringiflg. 
Ah, dark November's gift has no compeer. 



64 



THE FEET OF ANATHOTH 

NOTE: The Sutro collection, Golden Gate Park, 
San Francisco, included many mummified remains, 
"Exhumed under the personal supervision of Mr. 
Sutro." Among these I saw a pair of slender feet, 
labeled "Feet of a Young Girl." Singularly lifelike 
in their contour, strangely undetached in their signif- 
icance, those little feet made a tender appeal to the 
emotions. 1 have called the young girl "Anathoth," 
which means "Answers to Prayer." E. K. P. 

A pair of slender, mummied, little feet : 
Long ages past> with silken sandals shod. 
They may have paced some tranquil Theban street: 
Or idled through the golden Memphian noons ; 
Or kissed the sands of spirit-still lagoons. 
The feet, the little feet of Anathoth. 
Beside her, oft the sacred ibis trod 
And curved his serpent neck in livid lunes 
Of refluent brawn, to taste the teeming ooze. 
Not any pleasant scene her eye might lose : 
The flocking sails that flecked with white, or dun, 
The berylline of Egypt's ancient sea : 
She saw the awful gods in marble mimicry 
Adorn the templed walks and massive granite doors 
With m.any a mystic glyph inset ; nor loth 
She thought, beneath her breath, of him, the One: 
The Name scarce whispered, save by priestly lips, 
Whose greatness all her father's stately ships 
Might not contain ; nor all the palace floors 
Give room: of this, perhaps, thought Anathoth; 

65 



And if at dark some strange-wrought dream gave fear. 
Her lattice showed resplendent Aboukir, 
The jewel-king of Egypt's night: she listened where 
The clepsydra distilled its time-drops on the air, 
Then slept the poppied sleep the palace coolness gave: 
As sleep the reeds beside the velvet froth 
Of. lotus-flowers v/hose creamy petals lave^ 
So slept the innocent fair Anathoth, 

The fountain drips its fragrant waterfalls 
Within the court; adown the shadowed halls 
Now may the water-clock keep limpid time 
With all the sounds of lovely night a-chime. 

Thus danced and dreamed the princess-child, the flower 

Of palace and of garden; W'hom the moth 

Of early doom had singled for decay: 

Then passed she in one fever-stricken hour, 

The daughter dearly loved, whose very name 

Betokened "Answered prayer," their Anathoth : 

Anubis gently oared her on her way 

Across the stream of death : no more shall play 

Her golden anklets' emerald bells : 

No more she feels the deadly heat of day : 

Papyrus-rolls repeat with silent knells 

Her maiden-days, their lily state and fame. 

The Princess Anathoth, she sleeps full sweet : 
LJnfelt, the burdened aeons o'er her roll: 

66 

\ 



Long since, Osiris calmly judged her soul: 
Long since, deep rest befell her little feet : 
A father's sighs, a mother's smarting tears, 
Forgotten are, through long-forgotten years. 



ATLANTIS 

I 

Fair island-wraith, adrift on Time's gray tide. 
How gleamed with gold-red drupes those bygone 
lanes 
Where pulsed the star-cooled sea-wind's breath, where 
sighed 
Strange chimes above the serpent-winding fanes; 
How were the tranced woodpaths all glorified 

With purpling glow of sunset-flowers at dusk ; 
How swam the naiad moon past portals wide 
Whence breathed the jasmine, and the rose's musk! 

H 
In deep Saturnian calm the sunbright isle 

Through dreaming eons held its tranquil state ; • 
And then— ah, why? — the iridescent smile 

Of wind-rocked bubbles had not swifter fate. 
Yet, tokens haunt us in the ruined pile, 

The forest-hidden mound unsought of man, 
Though haply kenned, and marveled at, the while, 

In many-templed, secret Yucatan, 

67 



Ill 



Or where the iron Andes' walls eterne 

(Its purpose and its year alike forgot) 
Within some mystic immemorial urn 

Encrypt the mold'ring faded quipu knot. 
How could death come to thee with visage stern, 

Thou luring isle of sweets? Ah, liv'st thou on 
Through story, dream and legend; yea, still yearn 

Sargasso seas above thy glories gone I 



THE ASHES OF MARY 

Cast the ashes on the air : 
Life and Love are everywhere, 
Life and Love for them will care, 

Maryl 

Fear no more the zeal of youth, 
Feel no more the "serpent's tooth" ; 
Life and Love, have they not ruth? 

Matters not a marble tomb 

In the graveground's sacred gloom : 

You have found a better doom. 



\ 



68 



Yours to circle high in air, 
Taken as the winds may bear. 
Falling as the brave may dare. 

Yours, perhaps, to yield a flower 
Blossoming for but an hour, 
One sweet atom of your power. 

Yours to help the glowing west 
Frame his sunsets at their best, 
Adding an unearthly zest. 

Yours to gild some city street ; 
Or, the splendor more complete. 
Be a path for babies' feet ! 

Yours in cosmic dust to rise, 
Missioning some great emprise, 
Mingling with God's mysteries. 

Priest or stranger, foe or friend. 
Thoughtlessly the ways may wend; 
Life and Love stay to the end. 

Mountain-glen, gray, restless sea, 
Life and Love — ah, me, ah, me ! 
That I once your face might see ! 

Mary— Mary- 



69 



THE LETTER 

Dear violets and roses, 

Svv'eet eglantine and myrrh — 

This yellow leaf encloses 
Such memories of her. 

Fair, faded words long-written, 
They charm my heart today ; 

They sing of life love-litten, 
Though all the years are gray. 

O close, and close it tightly, 

This little letter's fold; 
Love still is burning whitely 

Within its scented hold. 

O love that sleepeth never, 
Though years are piled on years; 

Whose roses smile forever, 
Whose violets are tears ! 



70 



ATTILA: 'THE SCOURGE OF GOD" 

A Tartar troop follows fast on his heels 

As he thunders over the plain, 
And short the shrift that his yataghan deals 

From the Danube's deeps to the Main. 
In the race with the gusts from the Steppes he is first, 

His spine like an iron rod : 
He is first, he is worst, ay, splendidly worst, 

V/ild Attila, "Scourge of God!" 

In the sunlight of morning sharp scimitars gleam 

Till each shabrack reeks with a head. 
Oh, their captives ride in a hideous dream, 

And they envy the gory dead. 
He has drunk of the terrible cup to his fill, 

But yet, like a demon-urge, 
He is pounding each plain and pelting each hiU, 

Swart Attila, God's great Scourge. 

Ha ! turn, dead Attila, turn in your grave ; 

Scorn that title, O vanquished man : 
Behold, those lands which your Scythians dravc 

All again know War's fatal ban : 
So, your legions were ten, or a pitiful score: 

Now, Fury her millions dooms ! 
For the few paltry thousands laid at your door, 

Sweep myriads to their tcymbs. 



And if ill your grave you moodily turn, 

In that grave on some wind-swept hill, 
And if, dark heart, turbid memories burn, 

Yet, listen you long, and lie still. 
Know you this, puny Scourge of omnipotent God, 

Whole nations sink in Death's gloom : 
Half a world, in their frenzy those fierce hoofs prod : 

Rides Lucifer, Scourge of — Whom? 



PEPIN LE BREF 

After the mu7'dcr of Duke Wayfre 

Triple-wintered Ragnarok, 

When thy sullen walls are frore,^ 
Hast not, midst thy staring flock 
One such cruel, bitter mock 

As the king, whose reign is o'er; 

Glorious once, reigns now no more. 
Frozen silence meets thy shock, 
Doom of Time, dread Ragnarok: 

Black the sun, forever chill; 

Black the seas, forever still. 
'Gainst thy doors my numb hands knock, 
Triple-wintere-d Ragnarok. 
V 72 



Heaven, beautiful and pale, 

Where the winged war-maids be, 
Rangeth through earth's saddened vale 
One whose mind hath mortal ail ; 

Lost, its kingly mastery. 

Close thy gates, that none may see : 
Shield me with your phantom mail, 
Valkyr-maids, remote and pale ! 

Vain my prayer; through skies of brass 

Supplication may not pass ; 
Heeds not all my mortal ail 
Heaven, beautiful and pale. 

'Gainst Thee, only, have I wrought, 

Jesu ! merciful and kind. 
When great W^ayfre's blood I sought, 
Stilled his heart and quenched his thought, 

War-accurst, and passion-blind. 

Venom filled my soul and mind. 
Jesu ! Wayf re's wraith were naught 
Hadst Thou but my pardon wrought! 

If forgiveness yet there be 

Send it forth to respite me ! 
jesu! pardon dear hast bought: 
'Gainst Thee, only, have I wrought. 



7:^ 



WITHIN THE CRANNOG WALLS 

Through pearl-sown mights of April 

The haunting curlew calls : 
I bless my starlit pillow 

Within the Crannog Walls. 
I was a captive maiden 

And fearful of my life; 
I'm now with good gifts laden, 

And Morion's dear wife. 



"Thou callest me, foul harpy 

And vulturous my nide ! 
Yet, know I honor, lady. 

And by my word abide; 
And safer wast thou never, 

Amidst thy father's tents, 
Than thou may'st be forever, 

Behind these battlements." 



So long ago ii. happed me. 

So near it seemeth yet; 
Time out of mind forgotten 

(If that I could forget), 

74 



The sound of women singing 
Within the Crannog Walls ; 

From far, a wild voice ringing 
Strange mountain madrigals. 

1 bide till morrow's morrow, 

When down the glen he calls, 
"Moradne, hark my coming, 

Within the Crannog Walls !" 
I see him in the glory 

Of his love-litten youth. 
Hard-riding to the foray, 

A king, in very sooth. 

His eyes are black and slanting — 

His soul is straight and white ; 
Scars seam and mar his forehead- 

I laugh at battle's spite ! 
Nor is there such adorning 

Nor anywhere such grace 
As, beautiful like morning, 

His dark and war-scarred face ! 

With ernes upon the storm-crag 

He hunts the flying foe, 
Or on the swan-path treading 

His flashing paddles go ; 
Or riding to the foray, 

Long, rocky leagues away — 
My heart knows well the story 

His bearded lips will say' 

75 



Against the northern pagan 

Be swift his lance's stroke; 
Against the rush of squadrons 

His body be as oakl 
O. Mary Mother, shield him 

From traitor-foes' misdeeds ; 
O, Mary Mother, yield him 

That strength a hero needs ! 



Far off. upon the Border, 

Where fight twelve hundred spears, 
The battle's hurly-burly 

Can make vast room for tears. 
His voice with mine together 

What joy it were to hear; 
Once more across the heather, 

Oh, soon may it draw near! 

Send out the potent fire-cross 

Ye men oi Appentide, 
And when the pibroch's shrilling, 

Against the pagan ride ! 
Ah, no. Amidst the falling 

He bends upon his shield — 
Dear God! on Thee he's calling — 

And dying-^naneled. 

76 



O, winter's desolation, 

O, pain of springtime sv/eet ; 
O, mock of siren summer! 

My dead lies at my feet. 
Above the battle's welter 

The swooping banshee calls. 
Dear God ! my haveless shelter, 

Within the Crannog Waiis. 

1 kneel here, Mary Mother, 

I list the sacring-bell ; 
Oh, what to me of comfort 

Can any service tell? 
Oh, what to him is learning 

Of Scatach's deadly art, 
When to the dust he's turning. 

And reaved from me apart? 

"Torn heart, take thou this unction 

And bind it on thy pain : 
He whom thou wild lamentest 

Lost earth for greater gain : 
In regions Paradisean, 

Through all thy widowed years, 
Be his, the dear Christ-vision, 

Thine, Mary Mother's tears." 



77 



TF-IE FIGUREHEAD OF THE BROWN EOREE 

We eyed her, mates, in sun and cloud, 

We eyed her in the midnig-ht sky ; 
She reeled the log for mast and shroud, 

She drove the keel through wet and dry. 
We holystoned the deck so white 
It lit her up like noon, at night. 

Dull ships some skipper cons, or mate, 
Rut our ship's conned by Brown Loree; 

That figurehead charts out our fate, 
And glad and proud of it we be. 

There's on this round, wet world no guide 

Can map a course like her, our pride. 

Look: Brown Loree cants on the lee, 
The foam flies thick againsi her cheek, 

The waves bulge black; but what cares she? 
She loves the straining tackle's shriek. 

Close-haul the jib, make snug beneath; 

Loree has ta'en the bit i' her teeth 1 

;8 



We love her like our mother's face : 
For why, she's led us long and true. 

If storms could rive her from her place, 
Goodby, old ship, eight bells for you ! 

But Brown Loree shall lead for aye: 

Till seas go dry, and lads grow gray. 

All other craft, they sail for gold, 

Or freight with troops to fight their wars, 

Or stuff rich cargoes in their hold; 
But Brown Loree steers for the stars. 

Some night, when blue the heavens be, 

Our ship will leap clean out o' sea ! 

And then, no more we'll sight the shore, 
Nor any more her anchor weigh; 

The goodly port w-e'll make no more : 

The sea's gone dry, the lads grown gray. 

Then mought it, mates, to me be given 

With Brown Loree to sail in heaven I 



LOVE'S HOURS 

Not by the water-clock's slow, limpid drip, 
Not by the yellow sands that softly slip; 
They are not told by mystu: book, or star: 
Svv'ift. silent heartbeats mark Love's calendar. 

79 



HER ANSWERS 

It was a little orphan maid 

(Rose-red her blush, sea-blue her eye), 

She served the house for home and bread; 

With fairy grace the table laid; 
And when they wondered how, and why 
(Rose-red iher blush, starlit her eye), 

"Aly father loved the rainbow," 

Was all she said. 

They looked at her, the orphan maid 

(Rose-red her blush, sea-blue her eye) — 

The beauty of each vase arrayed. 

The garlands sweet, of richest braid — 
"Whence came to you this gift, and why?" 
(Rose-red 'her blush, tear-wet her eye) 

"My mother loved the flowers," 

Was all she said. 

It was a guest they honor paid 

(Grave was his smile, and dark his eye) ; 

He learned to love the orphan maid, 

Before her all his heart he laid : 
"Will you be mine until I die?" 
(Rose-red her blush, joylit her eye) 

"My mother loved my father," 

Was all she said. / 



80 



THE GRAY BIRD 

Through April, fringed with dapple-green 

And violets, wind-swung, 
Through orchard May, with honeyed sheen, 

The gray bird crooned and sung : 
"Adieu, adieu, dear Love, adieu !" 
Or so it seemed ; but thou wast true 

And I was filled with gladness ; 
("Adieu, adieu, dear Love, adieu!") 

There was no need of sadness ; 

I basked thy smiles among. 

But oh, a parting kiss we kissed, 

And oh, how long thy stay! 
June's golden skies grow blind with mist, 

June's fields are seas of gray. 
Adieu, Adieu, dear Love, adieu ! 
Ah, now I think that lone bird knew 

For me would be no morrow 
(Adieu, adieu, dear Love, adieu!), 

But one long night of sorrow. 

O loss that darkens day! 



8t 



JUST FRIENDLY VERSE 



THE DIP O' THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 

By the Dip o' the Road to Nowhere 

(Whisht!) iver the fayries walk: 
A-twinkHn' down through its shadows 

'Tis there that they play and talk, 
Whiles iver they tell o' their mischief 

In Bildie o' Bally na Hawk. 

\ure, Bildie o' Ballynahawkie 

Knows how that the crame eruddled thick, 
An' the kirns upset in the kitchens, 

An' the babes for their breakfast was sick, 
An' the praties burnt on the hearthstones ; 

(Whisht!) the fayries done them the thrick! 

Becase Elsie o' Cooroonah Buckle 

Had wint through their town the day, 

lAn' wan an' all of its dwellers 
Had niver a word to say, 

Nor nivir a shmile did they t'row her 
To lighten her foot on the way. 

Towards the Dip o' the Road to Nowhere 

Thrips Elsie, featly an' fine ; 
She chuses her eight o' the fayries, 

Hcrsilf she makes it nine, 
For to prank an' to play through all Bildie, 

An' in the black midnight to dine. 

85 



All in the midnight they wassailed 
On butter an' bannocks an' brawn; 

On hinney an' pangcakes o' pratie 
They delictably feasted till dawn, 

Tkim hill-folk, the fayries, an' Elsie, 
. An' their bit of a leprechaun. 

*Twas thin that the mornin' rose blackest 

Dn Bildie did iver rise morn ; 
An' the hairts trun'd cold in the people, 

For the ricks was blowed off, an' the com; 
Whiles in an' out o' the cabins 

Was iv'rythin' tumbled an' torn. 



Now Bildie knows whin 'tis threapied, 
An' it knows whin it's done the bad thing 

So, to take the hairm out its doin's 
Finds Ellen, that lives by the spring, 

Where the mill-wheel iver he's turnin'. 
An' gives her prisints to bring: 

Fine prisints to bring to the people 

That lives down under the hill 
Where the Dip o' the Road he's goin' 

Far away from the clap o' the mill : 
The full o* her nate little apron 

She must offer the fayries their fill. 

86 



The full o' her nate little apron 

They telled her to hold out polite 
To anny that looks like a fayry, 

Or anny is winged like a sprite; 
They kissed her and gived her the courage 

To stand there all day or all night. 

There was pink-lipped whilks from the say-shore, 
There was pimpernels plucked on the lea ; 

An' manny a shprig o' the shamrock 
An' bud o' the red rowan tree ; 

'Tv\-as thim that they gived little Ellen : 
By the Dip o' the Road stands she. 



An' all the day Ellen's mithcr 
Bewails hersilf at the mill: 

"An' tarries she yet. for the fayries, 
My Ellen, by the dark hill; 

Or have they clipped her an' carried 
Her into their cavern so shtill?" 



An' into the town flings her mither 

Where the bl'achin's is shpread on the green. 

An' she's wringin' her hands an' she's keenin,* 
"Oh, whayre is my little Aileen?" 

Now, in Bildie o' Ballynahawkie, 
O' the babes, swate Ellen was queen : 

87 



Yit, out o' the whole town o' Bildie 

Not a man o' thim dared to go 
An' make question o' what they'd be doin/ 

Thim hill-folk, with luck to bestow; 
Nor a wumman that dared to be peepin' 

Towards the Dip o' the Road below. 

An' the fayries waits till the moonlight 

Drops ivory rings on the Road, 
An' they waits till the curlews whistles 

Forninst their hidden abode : 
'Tis thin they comes merrily throopin' 

An' takes little Ellen's load 

Now, what's little Ellen a-doin'? 

She's taste o' her mither's smile ; 
An' she's croon to the babe in the cradle. 

An' she's shtir at her broth the while, 
An' she's take o' the love an' the kisses 

O' Bildie, from manny a mile. 

In Bildie o' Ballynahawkie 

The babes now ates o' their fill ; 
The kirn-handle^ iver a-dashin', 

The laughter niver is shtill. 
Down the Dip o' the Road to Nowhere 

(Whisht!) thim fayries kapes, grand, to their hill I 



S8 



MY GNOME 

I found a gnome ! 
His little home 

Was under a root and a rock and a hill; 
His spade and pick 
So light and quick 

Were tumbling out loads of clods with a will. 

His little pail 

He filled with shale 

And salt and gravel and granite-glint ; 
He built a fire 
Fine as a wire, 

To boil up his supper of grits and flint. 

He chewed, he crunched. 
His cheeks he bunched 

(I thought that I knew, now, why gnomes were so thin) 
On that curious fare 
Of minerals rare. 

But he gave me honey from the black bee's bin. 

To rest himself 
My agile elf 

Spun on his toes and stood on his head; 
Then, down he sat 
On r. zincky mat; 

But he gave me a hammock of spider-thread. 

89 



To lighc me home 
My friendly gnome 

Used a glowworm lamp and a firefly link; 
Then out of sight 
He vanished quite. 

But I shall find him again, 1 think ! 



MOTHER GOOSE AND FATHER GANDER 

Her claims are good, there is no doubt, 

But what of Father Gander, 
Who minded house while she went ou( 

The welkin to meander? 
Pic swept the kitchen and the stoop, 

And kept the rushlight steady, 
The skillets hanging on the wall. 

The backlog laid and ready. 

And while she soared up in the blue 

Amongst the s1^rs and planets, 
Who was it found enough to do 

A-knitting bibs and bonnets? 
And when his nightly chores were done 

And all the house was righted, 
His hands the sticks laid well in place, 

The backlog nicely lighted. 

90 



And when the lark, upspringing free, 

Met Mother Goose returning, 
Who was it brewed a cup of tea, 

The muffins kept from burning? 
The children gather round the fire, 

Their bowls of porridge steaming, 
And on their faces clean and gay 

The backlog's light is gleaming. 

Dear Mother Goose, her praises yet 

We'll tell all earth with candor, 
But please don't anyone forget 

To mention Father Gander, 
Who brews and bakes, who spins and weaves, 

Bears loads upon his shoulders, 
And smiles just like a pewter plate 

The while the backlog smoulders. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 

Our ol' canary sets an' blinks 
An' eats some seed, an' nen he winks 
An' hops straight up wiv bofe his laigs— 
But he ain't never laid no aigs. 
Well, wonst I gived his cage a bump 
An' snicked his piece o* sugar lump; 
Nen I grabbed quick an' ketched his laigs, 
Becuz he wouldn't lay no aigs. 

91 



But that wuz, oh, a way-while back; 

'Cuz paw, he promussed paddy- whack 

If I ain't tried if I'll be good. 

Nen, maw, she says she's sure I would ; 

An' nen, they bofe-uns told me twice 

'At Santy'd bring me somepun nice 

If I wui: good: 'at's whut they said. 

An' did I promuss? Betcher head! 

But our canary, since that night 

He wouldn't never sing a mite. 

Nen, paw, he says 'twuz my ha'sh touch; 

But maw, she spec's he's et too much. 

Wuz 'bout six days ; nen' mornin' came 
An' maw, she whispers sof my name, 
Nen, whut you fink? 'twuz Christmas-Day! 
Nen, I got heaps o' things, jist gay: 
A candy deer, a cart, a boat, 
A little brown-spot billy-goat; 
A couple books 'at's lots o' fun; 
A drum, a horn, a squizzy-gun ; 
A ol' gee-whumpus in a hood — 
Say, would you dremp I'd been so good! 
My paw, he peeks behin' his fist — 
He wants to laugh — but only jist 
Pertends he's sneezed an' ketched a cold — 
But say, not half them things Ive told: 
A ketcher's mitt, a football nose, 
Oh, piles o' truck: nen, whut you s'pose? ' 

92 



W'y, when he seed whut Santy bring'd 

Our ol' canary up an' sing'd ! 

An' ever'one us heard him say, 

"How azc'-ful swee-ee-eeet is Christmas Day!' 



THE MARTYR 

Don't tell me the fishes is bitin' like sin, 

The roas'n'-ears done to a turn ; 
Don't tell me the Pink Sox is battin' to win, 

'Cuz I gotto Stan' here an' churn. 
Oh, Splish, an' oh, splash, till I quake at the knees 

Don't tell me the red sumacs burn. 
An' nuts is a-droppin' dead-ripe from the trees, 

Better watch me joggle the churn. 

A circus procession, all public an' free, 

The clown, likely, doin' a turn? 
No. none o' them joys is intended for me; 

I gotto stay home here an' churn. 
Oh, splish, an' oh splash, till I quake at the knees ; 

I guess that your dinner you'd earn. 
If 'twuzn't full suppertime 'fore you got done, 

If you had my stunt at the churn. 

93 



Oh, splish, and oh, splash, till I quake at the knees : 

The fish, they are biting like sin : 
The nuts, they are dropping dead-ripe from the trees : 

Th'e Pink Sox are batting to win: 
Ah, many's the kiss I have had, never doubt, 

But none of them ever struck home 
Like Mother's quick kiss, when I whooped and sang 
out, 

"Hoorav. Ma! the Butter has Cornel" 



THE DUSTMAN 

It was a dustman, trundHng past. 
His cart was filled with wonders, 

Strange charms and spells away long cast, 
Weird chants, and Jovian thunders. 

That dustman said, Come, don't refuse; 

Here you may have your piokin's." 

"Great thanks !" cried I, "I can't but choose 

/ 
This nice old wand of Dickens." 

He gave it me, and passed from view ; 

Straightway I longed to wander 
With Little Nell, Mark Tapley, too, 

And Gradgrind's ways to ponder; 
In Chancery to take a glance, 

Where poor Miss Flite is flitting. 

94 



i 



And shuddering, to mark in France, 
Defarge, with her grim knitting. 

Oh, strong to throw all troubles down, 

Delicious, care-beguiling, 
Are Mister BofBn's winsome frown 

And dimpled Bella's smiling. 
The Artful Dodger, ah, the sight! 

Goes slipping like a lizard ; 
And Cap'n Cuttle's Heart's Delight 

Springs up, as for a wizard. 

Down Thames's misty tide I fall, 

With Pip and Startop, rowing; 
Or, wet-eyed, watch with little Paul 

"The Golden Water" flowing. 
Black cares may rise, foretelling storm 

Like Mother Carey's chickens. 
But scatters far the dismal swarm 

That good old wand of Dickens, 

With that same wand I could employ 

All future moods and tenses ; 
To raise the Dickens is my joy 

(Pickwickian, here, the sense is). 
Sweet grow the hardships of my lot; 

I'm deep the dustman's debtor; 

111 thoughts and hate I harbor not; 

I love the whole world better! 

95 



THE SCISSORS-GRINDER 

"Ding-dong, ding-dong!" a day contrived 

For shade, and ice-cool fizzers ; 
And yet, regardless has arrived 

The whetter of dull scissors, 
Whose grizzled head and well-kempt beard 

No whit the heat relaxes ; 
"Ding-dong, ding-dong!" on time appeared 

As regular as taxes. 

"Buzz-buzz I" the foot that turns the wheel, 

The hand that sets the rivet. 
The eye that marks the spitting steel, 

Are right as any trivet. 
"Buzz-buzz I" thou might'st have plied thy trade 

Since Adam's day, unflagging. 
And round the world thy journeys made 

E'en since the world 'gan wagging. 
/ 

Belike thou pleasuredst Romans all, 

Those oldentime world-hazers. 
With Caesar, out in Hither-Gaul, 

And sharpened up their razors ; 
Or shears that clipped the Wand'ring Jew, 

When he a-walking started ; 
And Alexander's vizier, too 

(Not yet from life he's parted) : 

96 



Or those that shore the Hebrew's hair, 

Its hyacinthine ringlets ; 
Or such as tossed upon the air 

Young Cupid's budding winglets. 
Hast met, along thy ancient trade, 

With Atropos' fell scissors 
And given each a razor-blade? — 

Leave that to wiser quizzers. 

To ring from far a warning bell — 

Would Fate dealt half so kindly! 
No; never word the jade will tell; 

We take her blows aye blindly, . . 
Hast wandered wide, and doubtless learned 

Dame Fortune's ways are funny ; 
" 'Steen cent' " ? well done ; hast fully earnet' 

My goodwill and thy money. 



MY DAUGHTER'S ROOM 

My daughter's room, its strange complexion, 

Its whimsies and its humors 
Pass all things in my recollection : 

Quirts, perfumes, scarfs and bloomers ; 
A shelf of steins, with pipes and plunder; 

Cast horseshoes, hairpins, pillows; 
A very marvelous great wonder 

Of leaves and pussy-willows. 

97 



There is a Moor's head, brown and gory, 

A red bib frizzled under, 
A grim reminder of the story 

Of that egregious blunder 
Erstwhile committed by Othello 

(A red bib round his weasand), 
A wholly desp'rate looking fellow ; 

Yes, all such things as these and 



Twice seven dozen more past spelling ; 

A weird and awesome pother 
Of contraps far beyond my telling; 

A feathered Hiawatha — 
Woe's me ! the case is growing ser'us, 

My Pegasus is hobblin' — 
A row of frowning, sunburnt heroes 

In football garments goblin. 



And on the blameless window-casing, 

Behold, a spout Aetnean 
Of frenzied photographs is chasing 

Up towards the empyrean, 
O'erwrit with scrawls so cabalistic 

The wizards 'twould befog 'em, 
In capitals characteristic 

Belike, of ancient Ogham. 

98 



Times out of number I deride 'em, 

Those frights her room adorning; 
Amazed I am she can abide 'em; 

Yet, should I wake some morning, 
Rememb'ring she no more was given 

Its tortured walls to plaster 
With freaks and fads — oh, may kind heaven 

Avert such foul disaster! 

— No more she might be deftly girding 

Bronze lions' manes with ribbons, 
Or in gaunt, ghoulish groups be herding 

Etruscan apes and gibbons ; 
That cruel loss had drawn the curtain 

(Forbid the heavens so will it!) 
Before her room — her room — I'm certain 

This world holds naught could fill it! 



RECOGNIZED 

Angel Gab'l, wha' yo' feddahs, 

Wha' yo' nice big plumey wing'? 
Ain't dey rustlin' in the meddahs 

Wha' de lifelong cherubs sing? 
Gone an' done fo'git his raiment, 

Sparkle-shinin'-like wiv gol' ! 
Dress mos' lak us momfly-payment 

Folkses, 'case de weddah's col'. 

99 



Been an' brung me nice big basket, 

Tukky, 'ysters, roas'-pig, lamb ; 
Oh, yo' name I needn't ask it; 

Sho' I knows well who yo' am ; 
Angel Gab'l, Michael, Moses, 

Some er dem saint-mans yo' be, 
Done fo'got yo' glory-clozes 

Wrop in common t'ings lak me. 

Nebeh min' dem glimm'n' feddahs; 

Angel's angel, des' de same — 
Fotchin', th'oo de worstest weddahs, 

Marcies fer de sick an' lame. 
One ol' body'll bress yo,' Gab'l, 

Michael, Moses, What's-yo'-name, 
Des' so long de good Lawd able 

Keep de breff in dish yer frame! 



IN COTTON TIME 

Chink'pins rip'nin' by de big-road, 
'Simmons swingin' on de tree ; 

Cotton bu'stin' in de low-groun's — 
Mighty busy man, dat's me. 

Possum, lakly, in de gumtree, 
Winkin' wen de moon shime low ; 

You is safe, yit, Mistah Possum, 
Cotton still am in de blow. 

100 



By um by ol' Jack Fros' tingle, 
Summer fotch her goodby shout ; 

Den de 'simmons gotteh take it; 
or Brer Possum bes' watch out. 

Mighty wahm an' mighty weary : 
Splice up high dem cotton-side' ! 

Wen de crap is all done gaddehed, 
Top de load de niggahs ride. 

Soon might come de sleet, slint-slantin', 
Soon de snowflakes sof might sif ; 

Dem won't noways 'fraid dis pusson, 
He'll be holl'in' "Christmas Gif ' !" 



HIS SALT 

Whut; yo home, yo' triflin' sparreh? 

Ornery youf, ain' wuff yo' salt. 
Wuk my fingehs ter de marreh ; 

Ef yo's lazy, ain't my fault. 
Oh, yo' agg'avatin' niggeh, 

Cayn't keep job one leastes' momf; 
Good yo' didn't grow no biggeh. 

Me fer feed an' clove yo', hiwif! 

lOI 



/ ain't 'scuse so plausy-plcezy, 

Middle fo'noon git back home; 
/ ain't shuck no job so easy; 

Wuk my fingers ter de home. 
'Nuff ter mek yo' maw tight-fisted; 

Yo' ain' wuff a two-cent toy ; — 
Name yo' 'scuse? Whut? yo's done 'listed/ 

Gawd above, bress dis, my boy ! 

Gwyne fer blam dat foe so sassy; 

Gwyne fer tromp, 'long great, big men; 
Gwyne th'oo dangehs wil' — oh, massy, 

Whut he fin' he up-again' ! 
'Praise yo', hon, twell folks gits tiah — 

I's de onlies' one got fault. 
Yo* is salted, now, wiv fiah! — 

Teahs 'ull mek me salt wiv salt. 

"And every sacrifice shall be salted with salt, and 
with fire." 



Vog 



KNITTIN' 

Knittia' mek yo' narvous, honey, 

All yo' stitches squidge so tight? 
Oughta sawn some my fus' 'tempses — 

Couldn' git no stitch jes' right; 
Wuss'n dat, drive me plum crazy — 

Leas'ways, whut I fink, at fus' ; 
Now I knows I wuz jes' lazy; 

Boun' ter knit, noiv, me, or bus'. 

Knit er washclof fer de sojahs. 

Full o' holes ; all ziggyzag ; 
Teahs fall fas' th'oo all dem crevice — 

Mekkin' sech er ragtime rag! 
Knit er stockun' ; yo' should sawn it — 

Look lak nosebag f o' er mule ; 
Knit anodah, wuss luck on it ; 

Cried ter Tarn I's sech er fool. 

But, bress glory, dey done 'cep' 'em, 

Dem nice womans run dat shop ; 
Said dey knowed a way to mek dey 

Holp some sojah win de top. 
Youahs? dey'll pass de Red Cross centy;* 

Lots o' folks has tuhned in wuss. 
Me? Nineteen pah, gwyne on twenty; 

Boun* ter whi dis waw, or bus' ! 
*Gensor. 

X03 



THE CYNIC 

I ate a walnut, on a bet, 

And half was good and half was bad 
The taste of the bad is with me yet; 

The taste of the good I never had. 

How sad, that those deprived of wit 
Should stand in greatest need of it! 



THERE'S SOMETHIN' BURNT 

"There's somethin burnt!" Pa he'd declare — 
Such meddlin' tricks menfolks will dare ! — 
Then, off I'd run as quick as scat, 
For beans b'iled dry, or cake fell flat, 
To find 'twuz nothin' but a scare. 

My stars, if I ain't had my share! 
Pa'd sniff more smoke, that wasn't there, 
So glad when he could bet a hat 

There's somethin' burnt. 

Now, Pa no longer sniffs the air; 
I miss him, though he wu2 a care. 
May he be happy where he's at ! 
Yit, turnin' things this way an' that, 
I'm sure I hope he ain't went where 

There's somethin' burnt. 
104 



MY POEM 

A BALLAD OF RESILIENCY 

It started as a chansonette, 

But back it came instanter; 
I changed it to a triolet — 

Its home run was a canter. 
I seized with ardor fresh and new 

My pen and ink and paper; 
A Protean shape again I drew 

With allotropic caper. 

A psychologic turn it took, 

With siftings microscopic; 
Then next it seemed like some huge book, 

Abstruse and ichthyopic. 
It started as a chansonette; 

authors' ways empiric! 
Some of its forms I quite forget; 

1 called it, once, a lyric. 

I long to laugh, but ought to weep 

(How bee will buzz in bonnet!) ; 
On that rebuff I lost some sleep ; 

I changed it to a sonnet. 
Turned down again, for all my toil ; 

Then, certainly I tried hard; 
I lammed a-loose the midnight oil, 

Yelled, "Cutlasses !"— and "died hard." 

105 



Xor even then was put to rout; 

For women, yes, and men die 
Without the least bit finding out 

They've cacoethcs scrihendi. 
I know the measure's faulty here, 

That word has four divisions ; 
But poets, sir, are rare and queer 

Who never make elisions. 

The rhythmic hiccough of my style, 

Apollo's fiddle scraping. 
Doth many moments dull beguile 

And give my lean thoughts draping; 
And though they're doubtless oft consigned 

To climates more than tropic, 
Just this, "Regretfully declined" 

Is writ upon the topic. 



ENVOY 

So, now, my muse, the good old thing 

What conduct could be sweeter? — 
Has taught herself and me to sing 

In many kinds of meter. 
It started as a chansonette. 

My poem neat and clever, 
And ended— nay, it's going yet, 

And may* go on forever ! 

io6 



THE INN 

Be merry at the Inn : 

The guests have come from far, 
And lone their ways have been 
And sore the sights they've seen, 

But fellow-guests we are. 

Give hand and hearty cheer 

From west and south and north : 
Not long our lodging here : 
Sing, "Welcome, comrade dear!" 
Smile, "Farewell !" and go forth. 

Ah ! fellow-guests are we : 

Though some regret they've com^ 
Yet none returning be : 
Rests not in memory 

The road to our first home. 

There's some rejoice to go, 
The message gladly wait; 

But others, wan with woe, 

By silent step and slow 
Lag towatd the nether gate. 



Yet each must pay his score, 

And each must then fare forth 
The coach once at the door, 
They meet with us no more, 
In west, or south, or north. 

We know not their decree. 
Or if they lose or win. 

Nor may their journey see; 

But fellow-guests are we : 
Be merry at the Inn ! 



IMMORTALITY 

If I can speak one word that lifts 

Men's souls to strive for better things ; 
If I can sing one song that drifts 
From heart to heart on happy wings ; 
If I reflect one glory-gleam 
Of truths that through the ages stream, 
Forget my name, but take my gifts ! 



Jo8 



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